


Snow Business

by errantcomment



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fluff, Gen, Snow, joy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-26
Updated: 2012-04-26
Packaged: 2017-11-04 09:14:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 596
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/392196
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/errantcomment/pseuds/errantcomment
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In honour of the snow in NZ, I wrote five drabble-ish ficlets about the snow in Baker Street, based off the premise that Sherlock actually quite likes the snow.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Snow Business

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to oxfordtweed for the late-night beta! 
> 
> Originally posted on Livejournal.

I.  
One day in  December, when John didn't have work,  and there was no case on, he was woken at eight am (there had been words about waking him up beforehand on his day off) by a chuckling detective dropping a snowball on his head, and leaving the room in a swirl of black coat and water-droplets.  
  
John had caught up with Sherlock in the street outside, and it wasn't until they had hit the corner-shop in a panting giggling flail of snow and scared Mr. Patel by hitting a window with a snowball that John realised that he was only wearing his boots and coat over his pyjamas, which were soaking wet.  
  
Coming home to Mrs. Hudson smiling over a tray of hot chocolate reminded John of his childhood in a very pleasant way. Long afterwards, he remembered the way Sherlock had a spot of colour in each pale cheek, and clutched his mug like a child.  
  
II.  
One time, (this time, John was properly attired in a manner befitting a decorated war hero and grown-up) they went to Hyde Park, where children were rolling in the snow and shouting and screaming. Lestrade was watching his own brood slide down a hill on a flying-saucer. Three or four uniformed policemen near by were utilising riot shields* in an unusual way. Sherlock told them that they were doing it inefficiently, and snatched one for himself, sliding down the hill and landing in a bush. One of the smaller Lestrades threw a snowball at John. Another one joined. John called for reinforcements and soon he and Sherlock were engaged in an epic battle. Lestrade seemed to find it quite therapeutic, gleefully concentrating his attack on Sherlock, who returned fire with as much spirit. They walked back to Baker Street wet through again, grinning like school-boys, snow dripping off their hair.  
  
III.  
When Mycroft turned up to ask Sherlock for help on a case he had already dismissed as 'dull', he opened the window as his brother waited at the door, and tipped an entire window-sill's worth of snow onto his head, yelling 'GO AWAY'.**  
  
IV.  
Mrs. Hudson slipped in the ice and did her hip in, about two hundred yards from Baker Street. You could be forgiven for thinking that Sherlock didn't care about their landlady, seeing her as a nuisance at best, but he was the one who helped her back into the flat, who told her that John was the best possible doctor she could have, and when she went into the hospital on John's recommendation, he was the one who sat next to her until her son came, and demanded she go into assisted living. Sherlock used snow to reduce the swelling on his eye, sitting on the smoking bench next to John. They made a pact. Mrs. Hudson came home a week later.  
  
V.  
It was eight pm. Snow, dyed orange by the streetlights, muffled the outside world and drifted in fat flakes, covering the tracks of the day. John and Sherlock were sitting on the couch. Well, John was sitting and reading, Sherlock was lying on his back, reading, with his head in John's lap. One of John's hands absently rubbed Sherlock's hair, like he was a cat. The fire hissed as snow fell in it. The world was wrapped in cotton wool, and in a cocoon spun from ice and warmth, Sherlock curled into John's jumper and fell asleep. After a while, John’s head drooped, and his hand stilled, still buried in dark curls.  
  
*Source for [riot shields](http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/uk_news/england/8458844.stm).   
**It didn’t work.


End file.
